Set in Stone, Chapter 9.

Elizabeth found the garden a relief after the morning’s stuffiness indoors. Mary had been at the organ since breakfast, something Lutheran, performed with more conviction than skill, and Lydia had been sulking about some restriction or other that Elizabeth had not followed closely enough to defend or oppose. The air outside was clean and still, and she had brought nothing with her to do, which felt like a small liberty.

“Miss Bennet. You’ve escaped too.”

She turned. Wickham was coming along the gravel path from the direction of the village, a leather satchel over one shoulder and his hat in his hand. He looked as though he had been walking for some time and was pleased about it.

“Mr. Wickham. I didn’t know you were expected.”

“I’m not. I was passing and thought I might call—your sister mentioned you were often in the garden at this hour.” He smiled. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all. I was only standing here achieving very little.”

“The best occupation for a fine morning.” He glanced toward the house, then back at her. “Though I confess I had a professional motive as well as a social one. I’ve been looking for a subject—someone I might sketch. The light here is good, and you have the sort of face that would translate well to pencil. If you’re not opposed to sitting still for twenty minutes, I’d be grateful for the opportunity.”

It was a flattering request, delivered without apparent calculation. Elizabeth considered. There seemed no harm in it, and she was curious to see whether his work was any good.

“Very well,” she said. “Where would you like me?”

“There—by the stone bench, I think. The angle’s better.” He gestured toward a spot half-shaded by the wall. “If you’ll sit, I’ll set up.”

She sat. He opened the satchel and withdrew a sketchbook, worn at the edges, and a small cloth roll that proved to contain pencils of various weights. He worked quickly, selecting his materials and positioning himself a few feet away with the ease of someone who had done this many times before.

“Look at me, if you would,” he said, glancing up briefly. “Or just past me—whichever is more comfortable. I’ll need your eyes.”

She looked at him. He met her gaze for a moment, then dropped his attention to the page and began.

The scratch of pencil on paper was strangely soothing. Elizabeth had expected to feel self-conscious, but Wickham worked without fuss, his manner businesslike and unobtrusive. He looked up, looked down, made a note, adjusted something. Occasionally he murmured a request—”chin a fraction higher,” “yes, there”—but otherwise did not speak.

After a few minutes she ventured, “Have you been drawing long?”

“Since I was a boy. My father encouraged it—he thought it might make me a gentleman, or at least keep me out of trouble.” He smiled without looking up. “It did neither, but I kept at it all the same. There. You can move, if you like. I have what I need for the structure.”

She shifted slightly, easing her shoulders. “May I see?”

“Not yet. It’s still rough—I’d rather you saw it when it’s something closer to finished.” He was working faster now, his hand moving across the page in swift, confident strokes. “Your Dr. Darcy has been documenting you as well, I understand. Though I gather his methods run more to the scientific than the artistic.”

There was nothing pointed in his tone, but Elizabeth felt a flicker of discomfort all the same. “He is studying a nervous complaint. The photography is part of that.”

“Of course.” Wickham glanced up, then back to the sketch. “It’s only that I’ve known the man to be somewhat… thorough in his examinations. And somewhat less forthcoming about their purpose than one might wish. But perhaps you’ve found him more communicative than his previous patients did.”

“I find him perfectly professional.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” He made another few strokes, then set the pencil down and studied the page with a critical eye. “There. Not finished, but enough for now. Would you like to see?”

“If you’re willing.”

He turned the sketchbook toward her. The drawing was good…better than good. He had caught something in her expression she had not known was there: a wariness, perhaps, or a watchfulness. The lines were clean and economical, the likeness immediate.

“It’s very well done,” she said, surprised into honesty.

“You’re a good subject. You have a directness about you—it comes through even in pencil.” He closed the sketchbook and returned it to his satchel, the movements unhurried. “Thank you for sitting. I don’t often get the chance to work from life.”

“What do you usually draw, then?”

“Memory. Imagination. Whatever pays, when it needs to pay.” He stood, brushing grass from his trousers. “I’m grateful for the chance to work from something real for once.”

“Mr. Wickham.”

Elizabeth looked up. Darcy was standing at the edge of the garden path, some twenty feet away, his case in one hand and his expression carefully neutral. How long he had been there she could not have said.

“Dr. Darcy,” Wickham said, pleasant and unhurried. “Good morning. I was just leaving.”

“Were you.” Darcy’s gaze moved to the satchel, then to Elizabeth, then back to Wickham. A flicker of anger passed across Darcy’s face and was gone so quickly that she was not sure that she had seen it.

“Wickham was kind enough to sketch me,” Elizabeth said, rising. “He said I was a good subject.”

“How obliging.” Darcy took three steps closer, then stopped, as though uncertain whether to advance or retreat. “I was not aware you were calling today, Wickham.”

“I wasn’t. I was passing.” Wickham shouldered his satchel and inclined his head toward Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet. Dr. Darcy. I’ll leave you to your morning.”

He walked past Darcy without hurry, his stride easy and untroubled. Darcy watched him go, his jaw set, and did not speak until Wickham had disappeared around the corner of the house.

“You should not have allowed that.”

Elizabeth stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“The sitting. You should not have allowed it.”

“I was not aware I required your permission to sit still for twenty minutes while someone draws me.”

“That is not—” He stopped, visibly checking himself. When he spoke again his voice was lower, more controlled. “Wickham is not a suitable acquaintance for you. I would prefer you did not encourage him.”

“You would prefer.” She felt her temper rise: the same cold, pointed anger that had carried her through the worst of his condescension. “Mr. Wickham has been nothing but courteous to me. If you have some objection to his character I suggest you state it plainly rather than issuing edicts about whom I may or may not speak to.”

“I cannot state it plainly.”

“How convenient for you.”

He looked at her directly for half a second, then away, as though the effort cost him something. “Miss Bennet. I am asking you to trust my judgment in this. Wickham is—”

“What? Dangerous? A scoundrel? Or merely someone you dislike?”

“All three.” He bit the words off as though each one were being extracted against his will. “But I cannot give you the particulars.”

“Then you cannot expect me to simply accept your word and govern myself accordingly.”

They stood there, three feet apart, the morning sun slanting between them. Darcy’s hands were clenched at his sides; his expression was rigid, unreadable, and beneath it something that might have been frustration or anger or some feeling he would not permit himself to show.

“No,” he said finally. “I suppose I cannot.”

He inclined his head with the bare minimum of civility, and walked past her toward the house, his stride stiff and deliberate. Elizabeth watched him go and felt the encounter settle into the growing catalogue of grievances she kept against him. Controlling. High-handed. Jealous of any civility shown to her by someone other than himself.

She sat down again on the stone bench and stayed there until the morning had turned toward noon, the scratch of pencil on paper still audible in her memory, the image of her own watchful face held now in Wickham’s satchel like a small theft she had permitted without understanding what she gave away.